Once More, With Feelings
by Sanguiyn
Summary: Meet Nerevar in his new incarnation, not a noble, not a warrior and all but a hero, and follow him on his way from pettiness to grandeur if he ever finds it. [WARNING: read disclaimer first]


Caius Cosades was staring in disbelief at the man standing before him, wondering for the tenth time what in Oblivion he'd done to deserve this. He was appalled. And that was putting it mildly.

"You said you are...?"

"The name's Arkenn, siree. Arkenn Dreth."

An idiotic smile plastered on his face, he spoke with a thick cyrodiilic accent, drawling and a tad nasal. This one heavy with crudeness, one the spymaster hadn't heard since he'd last set foot in the Waterfront District of the Imperial City. He could almost smell the stench of fish and cheap booze, feel the dirt on his skin, the mud under his shoes… and that was more than twenty years ago! The fact that this particular accent came from the mouth of what could only be called "a pathetic excuse for a Dunmer" was more than unsettling.

Downright disturbing, it was.

"Is that your parents' name?"

"Nope, siree. That's Valen's. My befenact... benaf... The man raised me."

"And a fine job he did!"

The Dunmer smiled again, apparently impervious to any form of sarcasm. "Why thank you, siree! Dunno my parents' name."

He stood still, hands behind his back, dressed in rags and wearing some cheap brown leather so-called cuirass that didn't even cover his arms. Dark-skinned, even by dunmer standard, a deep ebony gray with a tiny shade of blue. Eyes entirely deep-red, constantly shifting, looking furtively through strands of dirty, tousled dark reddish hair – well… _probably_ reddish, hard to tell with the grime. A man, but not since long, most likely in his mid-twenties and by no mean older than thirty. Which was young for a mer.

A bit taller than usual, skinny as a stick, clearly undernourished, he bore the distinctive traits of his race: fine features, straight nose, high cheeks, triangular chin, well-shaped pointy ears emerging from the mess of his hair. He was emaciated but could have been handsome if it weren't for that overall shifty, stupid and almost brutal impression his whole attitude gave. He could have killed you, robbed your corpse and left you for the rats to feed without giving it more thought.

Provided he had the competence, that is.

_Street filth_.

Cosades reported his attention to the papers he held. The letter from the Emperor – yet to be opened and deciphered - and the brief biography attached. «Criminal record» would have been more appropriate.

"Five years in jail... high-security quarters... why?"

He already knew the answer but wanted to have his version. The smile widened – a wily one, lips closed and as trustworthy as a Hlaalu contract - and the man extended his right forearm, showing his inner side, marked with the red diamond - symbol of the Empire - and a simple "M". He was branded. Cosades raised an eyebrow: it wasn't common practice to brand prisoners in Cyrodiil. That man's crime must have been particularly atrocious.

"What happened?"

"Sucker wouldn't let go of his drakes... couldn't know he was nobility."

_By the Nine... he's an outcast murderer and he's proud of it!_

"Prior to that... One year for robbery... and six months for..." Cosades paused and looked at him, stunned. "Prostitution?"

The Dunmer shrugged. "A boy got to eat. And they're greedy them guilds."

"Yes, yes, probably..."

Indeed. That he could understand. But why anyone would _pay_ to spend a moment with... _that_ was beyond him. He cleared his throat.

"Anyway... You're now pardoned, and transferred here to Morrowind..."

"Can't say I complain, siree... Saves me from an appointment with the gallows, 'tis sure."

"The gallows?"

"Yeah, you know..." he grimaced and moved his hand above his head, mimicking a hanging, tongue sticking and eyes rolling.

Cosades frowned, he hadn't read so in the «biography». He turned over the sheet of paper and there it was alright: «Sentenced to death for the brutal murder of a prisoner and assaulting a guard of His Imperial Majesty». Even killed his own kind apparently and stupid enough to attack a prison guard...

"What was that for? No. Don't tell me!" He raised a hand, cutting short the Dunmer's answer. "I don't want to know, I don't care, really."

One last time he returned to his reading.

"To be hanged to death on the 22nd Last Seed 3E 427. Sentence commuted by Imperial decree."

Then that dreadful word:

«Pardoned.»

He sighed. Now, he had to enroll that little piece of shit in the Blades, for Sheogorath only knew what purpose and by direct order of Emperor Uriel Septim VII, no less. He had heard rumors of the monarch's recent illness but nobody had spoken of any mental disease.

"Well, that's one impressive résumé you've got yourself, lad."

He raised his eyes again, only to meet a blank stare of incomprehension.

"A career, the story of your life... oh forget it!"

He had a longing thought for the small heap of moon-sugar waiting for him in his night stand drawer, sighed again, and looked at the sealed letter that would – hopefully – give a valid reason for this mess.

"You haven't tried to open it, have you?"

The Dunmer looked confused for a moment then realization seemed to dawn on him. "The letter? No, siree. Was told not to. Can't read anyway."

_Oh, yes. Of course. Obviously. A spy who can't read. Makes perfect sense._

He would have laughed, if it weren't so damn absurd. He managed to smile. "Tell you what. I'm going to give you some gold..."

And yes, that glint of sudden attention was now just there in the Dunmer's red eyes.

"Go get some proper clothes, weapons, armor, potions, lock-picks, whatever... Find yourself some job, join a guild and..."

_Please get lost in the deepest layer of Oblivion on your way._

"... come back to me when you think you're ready for an assignment. A mission. This letter is probably ciph... coded, and I'll need time to deciph... decode it and know exactly what the Emperor wants you to do here. And don't mess up. This isn't the Imperial City, this is Balmora, Vvardenfell, Morrowind. Law enforcers here aren't as lenient... nice... and that's one huge second chance you're given. Don't blow it."

The Dunmer nodded, not departing from that odious smirk which Cosades suddenly and violently wanted to wipe from his face. Possibly with the floor.

"How much?"

"How much what?"

"How much gold?"

Cosades turned and opened the drawer of a small cabinet. The room was small. He didn't have to actually move to it to reach it. Which saved time. Which meant that walking definition of the word «petty» would be out anon. He rummaged in a mess of various items – from papers to soulgems to other more legally-questionable things - and finally found a purse. He tossed it to the Dunmer who swiftly snatched it in mid-air then weighed it carefully. Cosades could almost hear the mental calculation running on.

"Two hundred septims," he confirmed. "That should do."

The man tied the purse to the leather strip that stood for a belt. "Sure."

He opened the door and left the house. Closing it behind him, the spymaster let out a loud sigh of relief.

----

Arkenn let out a loud sigh of relief.

He leant back against the door, resting a while to gather what little energy he had left. This had been tough, standing like that uncomfortably, cautiously calculating every words, every gestures, every expressions. At one point, he had feared he was overacting but the old sugar-tooth hadn't smelt anything fishy. He could still feel the waves of disgusted scorn.

He had a history of being at the wrong place at the wrong moment but what he's learnt deciphering the package only told him one crystal clear story: he was at the _worst_ place at the _worst_ moment. And, while it was true that this Morrowind situation had saved him from the gallows (Claudius Sellius, may you rot in Oblivion and Dremoras use you in all possible fashions) the simple idea he was to act as some sort of prophet scared him to no end. Period.

He wasn't ready. He will never be ready. No matter the dreams. Nightmares. Calls. That last point being the most worrisome of the whole affair. Old Uriel wanted him to 'act'. Had probably chosen him because he vaguely matched the so-called prophecy and was highly expendable - well, he was to be permanently expended, after all – but deep down he believed there was more to it. Not believed. _Knew_. This couldn't be a coincidence. In any case, whatever this «more» was he wanted nothing to do with it.

So he had given this little performance, hoping his «contact» would find him loathsome enough to simply dismiss him and send him lose himself in whatever dark corner of frigging Vvardenfell. It hadn't been easy: he might be a sugar addict, but the man was sharp, he could tell from the body language. Not someone to mess with.

Hopefully, Cosades would realize the terrible mistake the Emperor had made by choosing him and would ask for someone else to fulfill the «mission». The two hundred drakes were only a happy surprise. He hadn't counted on that.

He started to walk slowly down the shady alley. He would have run, but it would have looked suspicious and those guards in bonemold armors didn't look the jolly type. «Law enforcers are less lenient». No shit, mate. Plus it gave him time to consider his options. He wasn't in a hurry, anyway. It would take a while for the old sugar-tooth to decipher the thing.

He knew what he was, never doubted it. A low-life Dark Elf – a rare specimen actually – petty con-artist and low profile criminal. Perfectly at ease in the darkest corners of the Imperial City. Could smooth-talk his way out of any situation – save for two trials for murder but then he wasn't in a smooth-talking mood. Even doing time hadn't been that bad, considering. Food in his platter, a roof above his head and daily exercising to boot with the prospect of being out within twenty years. Thirty at most. Of course, that was before Sellius framed him and sent him to the Death Hole to cover his own sorry Imperial ass. There had been less food. Much less. And more beating. Much more. Discipline was of steel, down in the Hole, and guards were restless. Bored more than often and not very inclined to be kind to a Dark Elf scoundrel who had assaulted one of their own and nearly blinded him for good.

«_Dunmer_», he corrected himself. They say «Dunmer» 'round here. Better get used to it and start talking like the locals because one sure thing was: he was stuck here for a good while now. An outlander in his ancestors land. How melodramatic.

A sudden ache in his stomach and a light dizziness made him realize he really needed to eat. Not mentioning sleep. Last decent meal had been at Arrile's, in that damp hole of a town called «Seyda Neen». It had been delicious, but not much. After four months he had lost the habit to eat normally and could only do it little by little. A lesson he had learned the hard way his first day out of jail, in this locked carriage on the road to Morrowind. As for sleeping? Not a single second since he had read that letter. And that was three days ago. He was used to lack of sleep, from those entertaining moments in the Hole, but never for that long.

He cast a brief glance behind him at Cosades' door. It was still very close - he hadn't walked fast, lost in thoughts as he was - but he decided to stop and sit down, leaning back against a wall, the shade of the nearby hills protecting his sore eyes from the afternoon sunlight. Just a moment, to wait for the dizziness to wear off. Didn't want to look like he was drunk or something. Appearances were bad enough.

Needed to eat. Needed to bathe. Badly needed to sleep. Probably needed some personal attention too, seeing that it had been more than five years and he was a Dark Elf... _Dunmer_ male with the needs included therein. Four years with his right hand for only partner hadn't been an easy thing to handle – no pun intended – without a single moment of privacy. There had been times where he had considered relief with his cellmate – Edwyn, quite decent for a Breton mongrel he was, and the closest thing to a friend he's ever had. They both had considered it. Very seriously... Who was he kidding...? They did it. But the rules were strict and clear as spring water «No physical contact». And frankly the prospect of thirty lashes would they have been caught had spoiled the fun a little. And then, Ed was dead and it had been the Hole. He was too miserable down there to even _think_ about that.

So, eat, bathe, sleep, fuck... and get drunk. Those were simple needs and it was just fine. He could deal with simple needs, especially with that nice purse full of drakes he now possessed. Not mentioning the stash he's hidden just outside of town. Junk, mostly, but still saleable and he had to get that sword back, anyway, even if he didn't know how to use it. Once those needs taken care of, he would consider actually doing something. Such as leaving Balmora and put the maximal distance between him and the Emperor's insane plans to fool the Dunmer nation into believing he was some sort of long-waited prophet... warlord... whatever.

_Head north, Nerevar..._

He started, eyes opening wide, rather unhappy to see he had drifted to sleep right there in that dirty alley, a few meters only from Cosades' door.

"You're not well? Need help, yes?"

He looked up to meet the golden slit-eyes of a Khajiit. She was standing against the sunlight and he barely saw her feline features but yet could make out her slightly concerned smile. Weird. In Cyrodiil, Khajiits hated Dark Elves – _Dunmer_, dammit - and never missed an occasion to prove it. Something related to slavery.

"I'm fine."

This had came out a bit too harshly, but he wasn't used to be nice to Khajiits either. She stiffened and pouted. He found her expression to be extremely pretty before bashing himself mentally. Not _that_ desperate, he was, and he's never been into kitten. But still, he could be polite, so he had a faint smile and added:

"Thank you"

"You were talking to yourself, in your sleep."

"Was I?"

She nodded.

_Fine. Now I act like a damn lunatic._

"And what was I saying?"

"Chirranirr don't know. Crazy Dunmer was talking in some gibberish tongue. Sounded old."

"Crazy Dunmer had a little too much sujamma, it seems," he replied with a smile which would have been charming had he looked healthier.

She had a little laugh immediately followed by a short sniffle and extended a paw to help him up. He reached back absently and her expression drastically changed.

Blinded by the sun as he was, he still knew what was going on and what would happen next. Her gaze had fallen on the mark on his forearm. The one telling the world about the scum he really was, a contemptible murderer. So contemptible indeed the Empire had made sure it would be carved in his very flesh for the rest of his worthless existence for everyone to see. They _had_ added that little symbol meaning he was now free so he wouldn't be harassed constantly by guards and their like – which, by the way, had been as painful as the first branding - but that made no differences.

_And here she goes_, he thought, a bit more bitterly than expected.

She hissed, hopped back then growled menacingly as he finally got up on his feet and stood before her, still dizzy, blinking and wiping the dust from his incredibly dirty breeches.

"Back off, red-eyes!"

He splayed his hands, palms upward, unarmed, hoping to calm her down. She was reacting rather aggressively – much more than anyone had since he had been freed – but then again, she was Khajiit, feral by nature, probably seeing him as a threat and the last thing he wanted right now was four nice cuts in the chest. Or worse. Yet, it was quite the unusual reaction. Maybe she was high on sugar or skooma. Hard to tell, without being able to have a good look at her eyes.

"Listen..." he said cautiously, "why not just leave it at that? You go your way, I go mine..."

But her only response was growling some more as she shifted on her feet as though she was ready to leap at his throat. Which was probably the case. He looked around, hoping one of those tough-looking guards would have wandered to this seedy part of the town, but the alley was hopelessly empty.

_Aye, Uriel, here ends your prophet. Throat slit by a sugar-loaded kitten in that smutty alley of Balmora._

From the corner of his eye, he registered activity at the end of the alley and felt immediately relieved, even though he knew that meant bad news.

_Impeccable timing._

"You!"

Both he and the Khajiit turned to the owner of the voice in perfect unison. He noticed her surprise as she immediately dropped her menacing stance.

"Get your despicable Dunmer self over here right this instant!"

Cosades was fuming, no doubt. _Very_ bad news.

"Sorry, duty calls."

For a brief second he considered dashing the other way but he finally brushed past her and quickly walked to the angry man who was standing in his doorway, leaving behind a now quiet and thoughtful Chirranirr.

----

As soon as Arkenn was within reach, Caius grabbed the collar of his thin leather 'cuirass' and flung him inside, slamming the door shut behind them. The Dunmer lost his balance and fell head first, his mouth hitting the wooden bed frame with a rather harsh thud.

He managed to pull himself together and got up, wiping his bleeding mouth with the back of his hand, then spat a crimson stream on the floor.

"You fetcher..." he muttered.

"Famous last words," Cosades replied, his voice blank with anger. "And don't bleed on my floor."

He made one step toward Arkenn, raising a closed fist. The Dunmer inhaled deeply and froze, as stiff as ebony, staring down fixedly, teeth clenched, apparently waiting for the blow to fall without a single motion to protect himself, let alone retaliate. A living statue dedicated to submission. Cosades frowned, taken aback by the reflex and its suddenness, wondering what bizarre sort of discipline was enforced in his Majesty's prisons to induce such a behavior in a grown man.

Then again, the little street rat had certainly deserved it.

"Care to explain?"

With no pain coming, Arkenn slowly relaxed then blinked at the parchment the spymaster was brandishing under his nose. It took several seconds for comprehension to kick in. The seal. The old sugar-tooth had found out it had been tampered with. Hence the ire.

"Explain," Cosades repeated.

"I presume five years down below can do that to a mer... I've lost my touch."

Then he bit his lower lip, drawing more blood, wanting to slap himself as hard as possible. Wrong choice of words. Wrong choice of tone. Damned fatigue! One little moment of inattention and he'd made the high-master of all faux-pas. Too late to make up for it, judging by the puzzled look on Cosades' face. The man was observant.

_There goes the brilliant plan directly to Oblivion._

Cosades remained silent, still brandishing the letter, glaring at the Dunmer, anger turned into perplexity. 'Down below', prison slang for the high-security quarters, straight from the Imperial City. As was the accent, thick but no traces of crudeness anymore and spoken in a deeper voice. The expression had changed too. By the Nine, his very face seemed to have changed... his whole posture! The man standing in front of him was simply not the same one he was talking to less than an hour ago.

Oh, this one looked starved and exhausted alright, on the brink of collapsing actually. And he was as grimy as a stray guar, which he supposed now was on purpose. But he held himself straighter, with more self-respect and there was something... graceful about him. A hint of sharpness in his features, roughness even, weirdly struck the spymaster as loosely ashlandish which was most startling. The expression was intelligent, cunning, lips now curved in a slight mocking smile and a glint of amusement in the deep-red eyes.

Cosades, on the other hand, was not amused. He must be getting really old and rusty to have fallen for such a trickery. This, or the Dunmer was definitely good at it.

"Like what you see?"

Realizing he'd been staring for a while now, the spymaster had a scathing snort.

"Don't flatter yourself."

"I wouldn't dare so, sir."

Cosades grinned. "Sharp tongue, he?"

He drew the single chair of the room and settled into it, folding his arms over his chest.

"And look where it has led you." He paused, noticing the envious stare of the Dunmer. "Don't even _think_ of sitting on my bed."

Arkenn sighed, leant against the wall then gave a start as Cosades clapped his hands, as though to straighten him up.

"So, pray tell, what was it all about?"

"What was what all about?"

"That little number you did."

The mocking expression vanished from the Dunmer's face to be replaced by one of... fear? That was brief, though, and he so quickly regained his composure that the spymaster wondered whether he had imagined that.

"I was hoping you'd dismiss me."

"If I ever dismiss you, Dunmer, it's back to the Imperial Prison with you... and you know what it means."

Arkenn nodded, his last hopes crushed by the last few words. So that was it. His options. His future. Hanging from the gallows his corpse eaten by the crows or... or what?

_Face the past._

"Absurd!" he mumbled, not realizing he had spoken out loud.

"Pardon? There's nothing 'absurd' in an imperial decree. The Emperor speaks, we... _you_... obey. Quite simple."

"Do we? Have you even read that letter?"

"I have. Have you? And don't pretend you can't read."

The spymaster was now staring at Arkenn with icy blue eyes, anger rising again. It was taking a good share of self-control not to stand up and beat the truth out of this infuriating little whelp.

"Well... it was ciphered..."

"No more lies, s'wit! Given the way you've opened that seal, I take it you've deciphered it as well."

Arkenn sighed and closed his eyes, only to be overwhelmed by a new wave of dizziness that made him hold on to the wall not to collapse. He was so hungry now, empty, and so desperate for sleep that he wasn't sure he could think straight anymore. Cosades clapped his hands again, right before his face, loudly. He reopened his eyes, straightened and started quoting with a dull voice:

"_A local superstition holds that an orphan and outcast, a youth born on a certain day to uncertain parents, shall unite all the tribes of the Dunmer, drive out the invaders of Morrowind, and shall reestablish the ancient laws and customs of the Dark Elven nations. This orphan and outcast is called in legend the 'Nerevarine', and is supposed to be a reincarnation of the long-dead Dunmer General and First Councilor, Lord Indoril Nerevar."_

Reciting the words, he could feel the fear rising again. The very same panic that had seized him three days ago on that dusty road from Seyda Neen when he was slowly decoding them and their meaning had become obvious.

"_Arkenn Dreth has the appearance of meeting the conditions of this local superstition. Therefore it is his Majesty's desire that Arkenn Dreth shall, insofar as is possible, satisfy the conditions of this ancient prophecy, and shall become the Nerevarine._"

That word 'Nerevar' he had heard often. Whispered in his nightmares ever since he remembered dreaming in all possible intonations: hate, rage, joy, sorrow, love, lust... but the voice was always the same. Only now it was louder.

To see that name written... to realize it was real and not a figment of his imagination. To understand that he, of all men, mer or beasts who roamed this plane, had been chosen to _act_ as his reincarnation... well... that was more terrifying, _much_ more terrifying than the prospect of the rope.

And yet, he felt compelled to the task. Drawn to it, as a matter of fact. There was no escaping this one.

_But I shall not _act

"So?"

Cosades had noticed the change. The slight tremor in the voice, the rising panic in the eyes. He acknowledged it, even though not understanding it the least. He was also aware of the Dunmer's exhaustion and knew he wasn't being fair, but he had him cornered and intended to take full advantage of this. No matter the doubts he himself had about the whole affair, the Emperor had spoken.

"So what?"

"Will you or not subject yourself to the Emperor's will?"

"You still don't see how insane..."

"Will you?"

"Look, sir, maybe we could discuss this later, I..."

Cosades snapped. "**Yes or no**?"

"**Yes**!"

A wide smirk spread over the spymaster's face. "Good."

Arkenn felt defeated, yet oddly relieved. He absently touched his wounded lips, noticed it was still bleeding a little, then asked, "Will you let me go, now?"

"Nope."

Cosades stood up, not even a hint of anger remaining.

"You'll find food in that cupboard, nothing fancy, and a washbasin in that closet. Cold water only. There are healing potions over there. You can stay here tonight but clean yourself first. Don't steal anything, don't _touch_ anything and don't read anything you shouldn't. If you see something looking remotely like an Imperial Seal, stay away from it. Those are direct orders, so follow them for once. And you're now officially a novice in the Blades. Congratulations."

He opened a drawer and searched it a moment, finally grabbing a full purse he secured under his shirt then walked to the door all the while followed by Arkenn's puzzled stare.

"I'm off. Will be back in the morning and we'll have a civil conversation, you and I."

He opened the door.

"Wait!"

"What now?"

"What's a s'wit?"

The spymaster had a short laugh.

"Your self exactly."

8


End file.
